When All Hell Breaks Loose (7 page)

“You think black men are running around here mad at Adina Howard, Millie Jackson, Lil’ Kim, and Foxy Brown?” I ask. “They sure don’t give good black men any hope.”

“No I don’t think that, because men don’t think with their brains when encountering those kind of women.”

“That’s not a true or a fair statement, Adrian.”

“Greg, when was the last time I heard you even open your mouth in protest when we sat here on this very couch watching Adina Howard on BET? I’ve never heard you talking about lost hope. Come on, tell me.”

I shrug.

“See what I mean?”

“Adrian, I’m not going to bash those sisters because they’re proclaiming their sexuality on the screen. It’s their freedom. To get mad and swollen would be like … like …”

“Too much like
right
. Am I correct, Greg?” She shifts her position in my arms and smiles before returning her attention to the television. “A booty shaking is just too much for you to try to cover up and be mad about.”

“I see your point. But baby, men are men. We look because it’s pleasing. I hate to be so up-front, but men like looking at women.”

“I just think that if the black men, and men in general, took it upon themselves to take their lives and positions in this world a little more seriously, then the women would follow.”

“So you’re saying that men are the reason why women do what they do?”

“And what do
they
do?”

“You know, wear hootchie outfits, argue in public, talk loud, and disrespect each other.”

She looks up at me, amused. “I’m saying that before your kind came along, we were doing just fine.” She giggles and rests her head on my stomach. “Hell, yes, the women would follow. Now we act just like men want us to.”

I sit quiet while holding her. I can’t figure out what she meant by that, but it’s too late to be insulted and I’m too horny to go there and start an argument. The last thing I need to do is make her mad at me and cut myself off from getting any love tonight.
God forbid
, I think.

S
eptember is already here. It’s still hot as hell and I can’t even tell that summer has come to an end. Adrian and I have been ripping and running trying to get our wedding arrangements done. We met with the caterer yesterday. He was some gay brother named Marquis LaSalle. His name even sounded gay to me. He was cool, though, and all about business. We’re serving the usual: chicken wings, Swedish meatballs, fruits and vegetables. Adrian also ordered a four-layer French vanilla cake with homemade icing, and it’s as expensive as it sounds.

I figured most of the people behind the scenes at this wedding lead alternative lifestyles, because Adrian has more gay friends than I have pairs of socks and that’s saying a lot. The limousine driver, our coordinator, and the person singing the Lord’s Prayer are all gay too. She used to have a guy working in her shop that was flaming, so I suppose he hooked her up with most of these people. The rest of the folks I knew from around the way. We have a live jazz band playing the reception. Most of them I went to high school with. The one singer I scheduled is an older woman Pops knew from his days in the music world. I already know that Shreese and Jamal are going to trip
about the alternative lifestyles, so I’ve decided to just keep my lips sealed. Maybe they’ll never say anything to me.

Tim is coming over in a few, so we can go look at some tuxedos. Adrian picked black and red as the color scheme for the wedding. I figured as much. Red is her favorite color. The walls at her shop are a matte red. I’m game for it. Actually, this wedding thing is a bit overrated. The only things I’m excited about are the bachelor party, the ceremony, and the reception. Everything else is pretty much for the woman’s enjoyment.

Speaking of the wedding colors, let me call my sister and see if she is going to wear the red dress Adrian selected for her bridesmaids. Shreese doesn’t own anything red. She believes that red is a whore’s color. Don’t ask me where she got it from, but my first guess would be Reverend Dixon. Her phone rings four times before she picks up. Unusual. When she answers her phone, music blares through the receiver. I can hear Kirk Franklin and the Family singing loudly in the background.

“Hello?”

“Hey Shreese. What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to take Pastor Dixon some soup. He has a cold.” I can tell my sister is in her kitchen. She’s rummaging through silverware.

“Doesn’t he have someone to do that for him?” I charge.

“Greg, don’t be silly. I love helping the pastor out. It’s part of being a disciple for the Lord, and he called me specifically requesting my homemade vegetable soup.”

I let her remark slide, too busy trying to talk about the dress. “I was calling to see if you spoke with Adrian.”

“Yes. She called me and I accepted her invitation to be a bridesmaid. I was actually kind of surprised, considering we’re like night and day. God and Lucifer.” She chuckles.

“Give Adrian a chance and you might just end up loving her as much as I do. It was her idea to ask you to be in the wedding. Do you think you can behave long enough to walk down an aisle and stand until your big brother is married?”

“Maybe.” Shreese is smiling. I can tell by the inflection in her voice.

“So you don’t have a problem wearing red?”

“I do, but Gregory, I told you: This is your wedding. I’ve prayed about it and God has already forgiven me, since you’re my brother.”

“So you’re really okay with this?” I ask again.

“Sure. Pastor Dixon said I may be able to reach some lost souls at the wedding.”

“Shreese, I don’t want you trying to save people at my wedding. Your presence is enough.”

“Hmph. Lord knows Jezebel will probably be rolling over in her grave while trying to enjoy the wedding at the same time. Satan has a way of coming around and making a situation look like it’s okay, when it’s not. But the Lord. Alleluia! The Lord has equipped me with the answer. Thank you, Jesus!”

I sit quiet while my sister has her religious moment. She always takes time out to have a personal dramatic shouting session with herself.

“For what it’s worth, thanks,” I reply.

“You’re welcome, but you need to be thanking the Man Upstairs. You marrying Adrian is not the work of He who comes to save.”

“Adrian is really a good person.”

“I’m sure she is.”

“Pops likes her.”

“Pops liked all your girlfriends. He’s too busy trying to become a grandfather.”

We both laugh.

“Have you thought about calling Mom?” she asks.

“No.” I frown at my answer. Shreese knows how I feel about the subject of our mother.

“Don’t you think you should?”

I exhale. “Not really. And I don’t want to talk about her right now.”

“Okay, okay. Dang. Gregory, I don’t know why you act like you hate her so much.”

“Hey, look, Shreese, I have to go,” I lie to rush my sister off the phone. “Tim is at the door.”

“I didn’t hear him knock.”

“You weren’t listening.”

“A lying tongue is the way of Satan. God is going to get you, Gregory.”

“He already has. ’Bye, Shreese.”

She hangs up without saying anything. It’s cool, though. Shreese is funny that way sometimes. I’m upset that she brought up our mother. Who does she think she is? Now Tim really is knocking at the door.

“Hey Greg! Open up, man!”

I go to the door and let him in. He struts in with some expensive-looking sunshades on to complement his starched and ironed red shorts with matching red-and-white-striped shirt.

“What’s happening, cool breeze?”

“You the man, you tell me.” We slap each other five.

“You ready to hit the mall?” I ask.

“Yeah, but let me tell you, it’s hot out there. I ain’t never seen a hot day like this in September.”

“This heat ain’t no joke.”

“So, did you and Adrian find a caterer?” he asks.

“Finally.” I grab my car keys and wallet and we head out the door.

“Who did she decide on?”

“LaSalle.”

Tim shrugs. He’s not familiar with the name.

“Have you and Simone been out anymore?” I ask.

“No. She’s supposed to call me, though. That threesome we pulled was all that!” he says excitedly. “Her homegirl’s name was Charnelle. She was fine, too! I’m talking about thick legs, long hair, and the softest ass I’ve ever touched.” Tim is smiling and shaking his head. I’m laughing on my side of the car. “Man, I was like a bitch after they were through with me. I was hounding Simone day and night for a little while. I phoned her to give it another go and she wouldn’t return my calls. I went by her crib, but no one answered. Shit, eventually I had to start looking elsewhere. I can take a hint. Tonight, I got a date with this chick named Neecy. She’s a bus driver.”

“School bus driver?”

“City bus. She drives for DART.”

I laugh. “Yo, man, how in the hell did you hook up with a woman who drives for DART?” Dallas Area Rapid Transit is our city transportation. We always joke by calling it “Driving Africans ’Round Town.”

“You know me, I gets around,” he brags.

We climb in Tim’s silver Acura Legend and pull out of the parking lot.

“Seriously.”

“We met at the barbershop.”

“She had her son with her?” I ask, assuming that would be the first reason she was at a barbershop.

“She doesn’t have any kids. She was getting her hair cut.”

“She wears a natural?”

“Yeah. She has naturally curly hair.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I respond as I put on my own designer sunshades. “So I guess you’re about to tell me how non-American she looks.”

Tim looks at me. “This woman has it going on!”

“What does she look like?”

“She’s originally from El Paso and she has a nice accent. She’s mixed with black, Choctaw Indian, and Mexican.”

“Tim, when are you going to date a black woman?”

“She is black. We all know that in America the twenty percent of Mexican and thirty percent Indian in her don’t count,” he states with a laugh.

“No, I mean a woman who has dark skin,” I argue.

“What does it matter?”

“Bro, I’ve just never seen you with a dark-skinned woman, that’s all. I’m beginning to think you have a hangup on skin color, and that’s hard to believe since you’re dark-skinned yourself.”

“I’ve dated across the board, Greg.…”

“I know, man, and none of them, since
I’ve
known you, would have failed the brown bag test.”

Tim shifts into fourth as we get on the freeway. “Man, I just haven’t come across one I really like. Skin color has never been an
issue with me. If a woman is down to be with Tim, and Tim is diggin’ her, then it’s on.”

“What about Vanessa Ross? She was dark as a purple grape, beautiful, and was diggin’ you.”

“Vanessa was married. You know I don’t get down like that.”

“She was separated when you met her.”

“And she went back to him after I was through with her. You know I don’t get down like that.”

“What about that fine sister you met at that Chinese restaurant? What was her name?”

“You’re talking about Arlandra.”

“Yeah, that’s her. She was dark-skinned and unattached.”

“Yeah, she was, but her attitude was stank and she didn’t have a job.”

“Simone has a stank attitude.”

“Yeah, but she was exotic in bed.”

“And she’s also a redbone.” I laugh. “Okay, would you go out with Tichina Arnold?” She played the role of Pam on the show
Martin
.

Tim shook his head. “She looks too rough, man. I didn’t like the way she acted on the show, either.” He frowns up like a bad odor is resting on his top lip. “I like a sister who is feminine at all times regardless if she’s famous or not. A woman like Chatina or whatever her name is wouldn’t last with me.”

“That is the finest black woman I’ve ever seen! Tim, you can’t tell me you are letting her acting take over her looks.”

Tim ignores my comment. “Try another one,” he says, smiling.

“Okay, what about Lauryn Hill?”

“Was she the one who played in that old movie with Whoopi Goldberg?”

“Yeah.”

“M-m-m. She’s too skinny. I like a meaty woman.”

“And Kellie Williams from that show
Family Matters
?”

“Too young.”

“Last one. What about Toni Braxton?”

“Toni Braxton ain’t dark-skinned,” he protested.

“Nigga, you a damn lie. Toni would not pass the brown bag test,” I argue.

“Well, for your information, yeah I would fuck Toni.”

“I didn’t say nothin’ about fucking!” I break out in laughter.

“Shit, I did. I’d give it to her good, too. Tim Johnson style. Have her singing all kinds of love songs. I’d give her a Grammy she could be proud of.”

I’m cracking up, even though Tim still hasn’t convinced me that he would date a woman with dark brown skin. We get to the mall in no time. Gingiss Formal Wear is kind of crowded. There are several groups of men in there looking at tuxes and suits. Jamal is waiting for us when we walk in. His dreadlocks are down, framing his strong facial features. Sometimes, I can’t believe that’s his hair. My shit would never do that.

Growing dreadlocks was something I never even considered when I was growing up. My mother … I mean, my father always kept my hair low to my head. Jamal has been growing his for about five years now, and I think it’s tight as shit. I ain’t sweating my boy or nothing, but his hair is cool and only Jamal can do that and get away with it.

He’s a freelance graphics artist. He has accounts with some of the top advertising firms in Dallas and several others in other cities. You may have seen some of his work in magazines like
Essence
,
Ebony
,
Vibe
,
Esquire
, and
GQ
. He’s paid in full all the time, and he works from his house, so he can grow his hair down to his ankles if he wants to.

We walk up to the counter to be helped. A portly man with red hair and freckles looks over at us. When he returns to the counter, small beads of perspiration are formed on his nose and he doesn’t look pleased that new customers have walked into the already crowded store.